


I cannot rest from travel

by SilenceoftheSolitude



Series: Ulysses [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Backstory, Bertie Pelham POV, Canon Compliant, Friendship, Gen, letter exchanges, soul searching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:33:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22895719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilenceoftheSolitude/pseuds/SilenceoftheSolitude
Summary: Peter had been kind to him, a virtual stranger, and in the broken vocabulary of two young children, they had communicated for the first time with kind words and begun to form a rapport that Bertie would cherish for the rest of his life.
Relationships: Bertie Pelham & Peter Pelham
Series: Ulysses [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645690
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part of three that will compose the prologue to a much longer story, which will look at Downton Abbey from Bertie Pelham's POV and will hopefully flesh out his character in such a way as to make him consistent with the show, but giving him an added spice (rather than him being just Edith's way to happiness). The whole idea of writing this came to me with the lack of Bertie/Edith works (for despite Edith's absence in this prologue, that is where we're headed) that exist out there and my frustration of not finding what I wanted when I looked. That is not to say that my own work satisfied that gap, but it did help me feel like I was doing something at least.
> 
> I started this work eons ago and it's been finished for ages (betaed and all by the splendid BoxyP, who accepted to go through this even though she hadn't even seen Season 6 of Downton Abbey). It was certainly finished long before the film came out and it does in no way draw upon it (and if ever I should feel inspired to write a sequel it'd probably have to be non-canonical with the film).
> 
> The prologue will be divided in 3 parts and so will each subsequent part of the story (eight after the prologue). Updates should come once a week (over the weekend) if I can manage it (my work-life balance is atrocious, but this should give me an excuse to actually think about my life and something that is not work).
> 
> I've done a bit of research (for my own pleasure more than anything else), so even though I do not claim perfect historical accuracy, this should make the history buffs (I'm one of you) out there happy (hopefully). In as much as it pertains any other mistakes, they should all be attributed to myself and to the fact that I lost the masterfile where all the relevant changes had been made, along with my most precious pen drive (one of the reasons why I've delayed publication was because I hoped to find my pen drive again, but alas it hasn't come to be). Everything that is not a mistake is probably thanks to my aforementioned beta, BoxyP, whose work on this has been truly thorough. Thanks ;)

The first time Bertie went to Brancaster, he was little more than a babe. His mother having been taken ill, his father had taken Bertie with him to the castle, spurred on by Lord Hexham, who had reassured his father that Bertie could stay in the nursery with Peter while they discussed whatever it was that adults discussed when children were away. Bertie remembered quite well the admonishments given to him by his father to behave properly and to refer to Peter as Master Peter rather than Cousin Peter. A fourth degree of relation and a first meeting required as much, according to Mr Pelham. Bertie had been schooled since a very young age on the ways in which he and his father were related to the current and future Marquess of Hexham, and upon entering Brancaster castle for the first time, he had enough composure to understand that he was not to stare and not to embarrass his father, who was a close friend of the Marquess. At three years of age, that had not been an easy task to accomplish, but nevertheless his mother had taught him well enough to help him succeed for as long as he was walking towards the nursery, where his cousin Peter, one year his senior on the cards, but already five years of age, was being entertained by the nanny.

Bertie had never thought of his family as unfortunate, and even though nobility had mostly washed away from their shoulders, with his father’s job and his mother’s character, he knew he was a fortunate child. Peter, however, had appeared to him much like a king, ensconced in a big room, surrounded by wooden toys and a fretting nanny at his beck and call, eager to fulfil his every wish. Nevertheless, Peter had been kind to him, a virtual stranger, and in the broken vocabulary of two young children, they had communicated for the first time with kind words and begun to form a rapport that Bertie would cherish for the rest of his life.

Bertie’s father, Charles Pelham, had not been a clerk by trade, but rather had become one after having sustained an injury during the Sikkim expedition, when Bertie had been only a few months old, forcing Mr Pelham to renounce his military career and return home with an injury that left him in poor health throughout his remaining life. The 5th Marquess of Hexham, William Henry Peter Pelham, had taken his second cousin’s situation to heart and had decided to recommend him for an administrative job at the Brandy Bank in West Woodburn, which ensured that Bertie’s family was well looked after, and incidentally gained Charles important expertise on finance that could be used to serve Lord Hexham. After all, until the birth of Peter, Charles had been the heir of the title and fortune of the Marquess, and had been treated as such, so it had stood to reason that Charles should have done his bit. The Pelhams had lacked a strong male line after the birth of the 4th Marquess and his brother, Bertie’s great grandfather, leaving the title frustratingly connected to a single, direct male heir ever since. Strong health had ensured that none of them had perished before their time, however, and thus had rendered Bertie’s own family line quite redundant as safeguard for the title. In spite of Peter’s birth, however, Mr Pelham had shown himself to be a capable administrator, and had slowly but surely overtaken the role as closest advisor to the Marquess, which had belonged to the estate agent, Mr Stokes.

Despite the close connection between the two families, however, Bertie himself had not been to the house prior to that visit. The situation might have been different had he been a girl or even had he had a sister, who could have been proposed as a prospective wife for Peter. Instead, the Marquess’ sister would provide that particular service to her brother by producing only two daughters, the oldest of which, Adele, was soon selected to be Peter’s betrothed since the cradle, when Peter himself was only eight years of age.

Nevertheless, after his first successful visit, Bertie was called to Brancaster again, and not because of particular necessities presented by his parents, but rather because Cousin Peter had requested his presence. The visits, quite sparse in the very beginning of their childhood, became more frequent as time went by. Peter quickly became a friend to Bertie, even though the time they spent together was not nearly as much as that which Bertie spent with other children. Both of them had unusual characters that often set them aside from their peers, but were ultimately the reason that drove them together. Bertie had always held a deep fascination with anything related to warfare and the discipline instilled in the Army – stories from his father and his mother’s unrelenting education had ensured his predilection for the military. Peter, on the other hand, was very much more interested in reading and anything that related to art in any way, the lack of a mother to raise him during his adolescence years not translating into his growing without maternal affection. Indeed, the fact that his mother had died of tuberculosis had only meant that his father had had less time to spend with Peter, having to ensure that his social appearances covered the ones his deceased wife would have taken upon herself had she been alive, as well as those that were purely his own to sustain. No matter how different their personalities appeared to be, Bertie’s sensible soul and Peter’s generosity met half-way and were able to bring the two together.

Bertie’s mother often insisted that Bertie cultivate his relationship with Peter in an effort to bring the family back into the ranks of nobility she believed her son to be deserving of. However, Bertie had soon grown to like Peter for who his cousin was rather than the social opportunities he could give to Bertie. Association with aristocrats and their children had not painted too positive a picture of what being a peer meant; starting with Adele Graham, whom Bertie had ample opportunity to spend time with, and the role she and Peter had been cast into since her birth, Bertie had immediately remarked that holding a role in society would come at the expenses of one’s own desires and ambitions – he could never be forced into marrying someone simply to appease his family. The ghastly prospects presented by Peter’s role as future Marquess of Hexham became even more starkly obvious to Bertie when the two boys approached adulthood. By the age of fifteen, it was undeniable that Peter was not like other boys, and for Bertie, who frequented him every so often, but was his cousin’s faithful correspondent, it became obvious that his artistic and literary inclinations had flourished into something more, something tremendously dangerous for the Marquess of Hexham to contend with.

Nevertheless, as soon as he was allowed, Bertie left Northumberland and all its problematics behind to head to the Royal Military College, Sandhurst. His mother, though not entirely surprised by Bertie’s decision, had still looked at him with eyes filled with fear. Bertie had known that fear would be the all-pervading sentiment in his mother long before he had officially announced his decision to his parents, but all the years he had lived had contributed to convincing him that he had no other clear interest beyond warfare. A part of him he struggled to bury was disgusted by the concept of fighting, of taking people’s lives, erasing their future with a piece of led, but the biggest part of his soul had grown believing in the cause of protecting those whom he loved.

The College would be very expensive, and so were the following years, where Bertie struggled constantly with the notion of having to pay all of his income and some of his father’s to be able to even maintain his status, let alone advance in rank. His first assignment was with the 3rd Battalion of the Northumberland Fusiliers, with whom he went to Antigua to guard the Boer prisoners, but the battalion was soon brought back on Home soil and shortly thereafter decommissioned early on in Bertie’s career, following the Northumberland Fusiliers’ reorganization, and he joined the 1st Battalion as a Second lieutenant in April of 1907.

Bertie had been keeping a heavy correspondence with his cousin, and had thus learnt of Peter’s clear reluctance to marry. Peter showered Bertie with questions about the places he was in, and the people he met, but resolutely refused to allow any talk of his marriage prospects with Adele to become in any way serious. There was, beneath all the elaborated excuses and recounts of rebellious acts, a streak of resignation to Peter’s words, that Bertie could never forget as crystalized in a letter he received soon before he was to leave for Peshawar, in 1908: _I will do it when it will become necessary; I will not disappoint Father so, but I shall also endeavour to remain as free and true to myself as I can for as long as I can. Adele is young, she will wait more than a decade still_.

A part of Bertie had wanted to reproach Peter for his treatment of Adele, even though he knew her to not be particularly pleasant, but the truth was that Adele would be waiting for Peter for as long as his cousin would require, because Peter was the future Marquess, and Adele – as much as her parents – wished to become the future Marchioness. Bertie could not be happier than he was at that moment for the freedom he found in the Army, and his lower station, but soon he realised that even he was becoming entrenched in the family dynamics – much more than he had ever anticipated when he had asked to share a toy with a five years old Peter in the boy’s nursery. The open though cryptic nature of his cousin’s letters was increasingly striking Bertie as the words he had imagined he would exchange with his brother, had he ever had one.

When, in 1913, Bertie properly set foot on Homeland soil again, with his Battalion’s station in Portsmouth, the few words exchanged between himself and his cousin became more frequent and resulted in a meeting between the two, during Bertie’s downtime.

Peter arranged for a meeting in a restaurant Bertie could have never afforded on his salary, even though he had recently been promoted to the rank of Captain. Bertie had chosen to dress in his formal uniform for the occasion, knowing it was the best item of clothing he owed in his wardrobe at the moment. Peter, his twenty-seven years not registering fully on his fresh, clean shaven features, had instead dressed in a less conspicuous white tie. Even as he entered the restaurant, however, Bertie had to indisputably remark that Peter would be conspicuous whenever he went. He had been graced with height and the better looks of his mother rather than the average looks of the Pelhams Bertie himself bore so clearly. His cousin’s black hair was fashionable and spotless, framing his face in such a way that its roundness was elongated enough that it looked quite like a perfect oval rather than the face of a chubby man. Peter’s best feature, his green eyes, were as distinctive as Bertie remembered them, but didn’t capture Bertie’s attention nearly as much as his cousin’s wide smile when their eyes met for the first time that evening.

In spite of the presence of other patrons, Peter stood to embrace his cousin tightly, greeting him with as much affection as Bertie’s own mother had done when last Bertie had seen her. Mirada Pelham had never been excessively open with her displays of affection, but the long periods spent apart since Bertie’s first commission had further strengthened the bond that had always been there between the two.

“You look dashing, Bertie,” were Peter’s first words once they separated.

“Hardly,” Bertie deflected the compliment as they sat at the table. “You better fit your own compliment after a long trip across the grounds than I ever will.”

The conversation was mostly inconsequential in nature throughout the dinner, both men knowing that they could not trust the privacy of the establishment, but once they moved outside of the restaurant and took a walk around the city’s streets, words were exchanged less shallowly.

“Papa is becoming less and less magnanimous with the freedoms I take,” Peter commented as they stood still, facing the sea in front of them. “He is starting to push for the marriage – Adele has apparently asked for the engagement to be made official at the very least.”

Bertie didn’t need to ask why Peter wasn’t giving in to the inevitable situation, the reason was clear enough as it was, without anyone needing to become too specific. “You always knew you couldn’t put it off forever.” It didn’t bear saying that now that Adele was seventeen, the marriage could truly become a concrete prospect rather than just the work of fantasy of Peter’s relations.

Even with the encroaching darkness, Bertie could clearly make out the grim smile on Peter’s face. “Yes, but there’s more to it than that, I’m afraid. He won’t say, but I think… I think he is not quite well.”

“Your father is ill?” Bertie inquired with no small amount of apprehension.

“I believe as much, yes. And we all know what that means, don’t we, Bertie?”

“Are you quite certain? Have you tried to speak to my father about the situation as well? I have no qualms about sending him a letter to enquire after Cousin William, I hope you know as much. After all, he is family as well, and I should hate for anything to happen to him regardless of what that means for you.” Bertie was sincere in his words, he knew as much, and sought no reward for their utterance, but still he was rewarded with a gentle squeeze of his forearm as a sign of gratefulness.

“Your father would not speak even if he knew with certainty. And as things stand now, I do not believe Cousin Charles would even be aware of the matter, my father would not want him to be.”

Bertie observed the stillness of the expanse of sea in front of him, contemplating the darkness to find within it the light that ruled life. He found no answer there, only questions, but he could relish in the quiet contemplation of life, even if he was no wiser afterwards. “What are your plans?” He asked eventually.

“What they have always been. I know what my father wants of me, and I will give into his request. But I am not quite ready yet. I travelled a lot these past few years, and found a place. Do you remember, Bertie?” Bertie nodded in assent; he did remember. The mythical search for a place, _the_ place. Neither one of them had ever felt quite at ease in their own places of origin, always restless and uneasy, cast in roles that never did quite suit them, but where Bertie had never admitted aloud to such restlessness, Peter had striven to find his own home since the beginning, a place where his soul would feel free to express itself at its fullest, without fear of judgement or consequences. Bertie had thought the search itself a goal to achieve in his life, though he had never expressed it aloud; he was glad for his cousin, but also immensely envious of his success – more than he had ever been envious in his life. “I was in Tangiers not two months ago, and I could not sleep very well. So I took up a little before dawn and decided to have a walk on the beach. There, I found it. Young fishermen were casting their nets, and as the sun broke over the horizon, their bodies became alive, like a flame stoked from burning ashes.”

“It sounds marvellous,” Bertie commented, mesmerised by the sentiment behind his cousin’s words.

Peter smiled, and it reached far beyond his eyes. His face was illuminated by life as Bertie wasn’t sure it had ever been. “I will return there,” Peter declared. “And when I feel like I will have left enough of me in Tangiers, like I will have lived enough, I will succumb to the inevitability of marrying Cousin Adele and producing an heir to the Hexham title, possibly one who shall not find such difficulty in completing the same task,” he added with a self-critical retort. Cousin Peter had always been good at making fun of himself. He was a lost soul and knew himself to be as much, but at the same time, where others strove to fit in, he had decided to be the individual he truly was, regardless of what other people might say. It did not matter that he was to live a life not meant for him; for as long as he could, he would escape the confines of his obligations and allow his spirit to be freed of any mundane concern.

They separated soon thereafter, though Bertie would take that conversation with him for a long while. Having overcome the first bout of jealousy, Bertie had to admit that he was happy for Peter, happy because despite the unavoidable unhappiness that awaited him, Peter had found joy in life, something Bertie could still not claim for himself. He had thought the Army would suit him, and indeed it did, but it was no cure for the ailment of his heart; a palliative maybe, but no more than that. The sense of loneliness made him seem like an anchorless boat, floating about while trying to find a shelter from an encroaching storm.


	2. Part 2

It was not long after his encounter with Peter that war broke out in continental Europe, and suddenly any thought about what was right for him disappeared from Bertie’s mind. He had the chance to meet his parents once before leaving, a quick visit which made him feel his mother’s affection for him keenly, more than he had ever managed to before then. His father was proud, he had encouraging words to say, and the stalwart belief that Bertie had found a just cause to fight for. His mother, instead, had only the deepest anxiety as she kissed him goodbye and wished him well on his journey. She had always been a staunch promoter of her son’s morality, dear Mother, quite concerned with raising him into an honest man who could be called upon to serve his family at the barest moment’s notice, but beyond the strictness, there had always been the undeniable wish for Bertie’s happiness and that, he knew, counted much more than even his father’s praise towards true affection.

France and Flanders proved to be battlegrounds in more than just their roles as theatres of a war, Bertie found himself on a daily quest to understand himself and his motivations as each day was a day when his fellow brothers-in-arm died at his side. He tried to send as many letters home as he could manage, though time for personal matters was not abundant. Correspondence brought back to camp was scarcer than the one they sent home, probably, but in the throng of war, Bertie could not truly be sure of anything. It wasn’t until news of the Marquess’ death reached him, halfway through 1917, that Bertie had a solid understanding of how much life had been escaping him while he ambled amidst the trenches. He wrote a letter to Cousin Peter, feeling an odd sense of disconnect as he wrote on the envelope an address he realised he could not properly associate to his cousin: _The Most Honourable Marquess of Hexham_. That small change to three of those first six words (they had been _The Right Honourable Earl of Corbridge)_ , which made little difference at first glance, made all the difference to Bertie. Indeed, it wasn’t until his cousin’s reply that Bertie even dreamt of once again addressing Peter as ‘Cousin Peter’ in the salutation of his missive.

Communication with anyone ceased altogether between July and November 1917, when he was involved in the battle for Ypres, which resulted in Bertie’s eventual promotion from Captain to Major as his superior officer died in front of him half-way through the operation. That death, discarded quite so quickly by his superior officers, too intent on keeping the organisation of the whole Brigade, though just one in a very long list of similar decisions, was the first one to truly touch Bertie quite so closely and, thus, resulted in his final understanding on the diminutiveness of the human condition.

When the offensive finally came to an end in early December, Bertie felt wholly spent, as if little mattered still in his life. And on that day, he wrote a letter to Peter, that he knew would not be sent until days later, and to which he did not expect to receive an answer.

_Dearest Cousin Peter,_

_I am writing to you on this day, even though I know you will not answer to me for you would not know where I am, because of an overwhelming sense of certainty that hangs around me, the same overwhelming sense that compelled me to write to both my parents, though not as honestly as I am to you._

_The truth is, Peter, that Death hangs about this place as certainly as the setting sun preannounces the coming of darkness. I am not afraid for myself, truly. Indeed, I feel calm and peaceful even amongst the chaos of these foreign lands ravaged by destruction, despite the screams of agony that never cease to echo and resonate, long after battles have been fought. This, I know, you will never understand, and I shall never wish you to; there is order to this chaos, and it starts within my soul. I think, Peter, I am finally on the way to finding my own place._

_For all this, I want to reassure you that I am well and content, but the uncertainty of tomorrow has forced me to seek your ear, in hopes that you can reassure my parents, should my time come. You have a way with words that I never could quite master – despite all of your efforts to teach me – and I should like you to use it with Mother especially, should the hour demand it (please, do look beyond your common misalignments for my own sake; I know you both would suffer at the hour, and I should hate to think of you fighting rather than coming together in mourning)._

_Yours devotedly,_

_Bertie Pelham_

The war effort intensified after that, and Bertie felt that the end was nigh, though again, probably not his. He had added the last paragraph to that letter in case the worst came to pass, but he had not lied about the tranquillity of his soul, and that followed him in the subsequent months, until finally, when Germany capitulated, he was sent home.

The war had left an imprint on Bertie’s soul, a certain mark of growth that had brought with it the certainty that whichever search for belonging he had begun was being wasted in the Army. The conflict within him, however, was great. On the one hand, he had a love for discipline and order, which fuelled his appreciation for the military institution; he was a good shot and a strong soldier, too, with a keen mind for tactics which took others years to achieve and had taken him mere weeks to discover: he was suited for the job. On the other hand, there was the reality of the horrors of war and Bertie’s reluctance to kill or even hurt someone – a hard man he might be, but he took no delight in ending the future. Now that the greatest war of their time had come to an end, the idea of killing for King and Country became ever more repellent, and Bertie was struggling to come to terms with that reality. Still, as his Battalion’s new duty in Ireland was announced the following year, along with his nominal promotion to Senior Major,Bertie found himself going along, even as both Peter and his mother had advised him to reconsider his position. There was nothing for him at Brancaster save the affection of the people he loved, and though that was a great deal more than any man had a right to throw away, it wasn’t enough to get him to stay; he needed to have something to do to feel accomplished, and that, no amount of affection could replace.

“You should not have to serve any longer, Bertie,” Peter said as they ate what was to be Bertie’s last meal at Brancaster before he left for Carlow. His mother had been trying to subtly suggest as much for the whole evening without much success – even though Bertie had known, he had preferred to ignore all of her comments and explicitly misinterpret them. Peter, of course, though a very patient man, had also the privilege of being Bertie’s closest friend in the family, and knew he could use his status as such to be much more forward.

Mother looked at him with grateful eyes for the first time in her life, Bertie thought, and in a way he was glad to have brought them together through their mutual affection for him – it was better than having to witness their animosity, however gentle that may be. Still, it would not be enough to sway him in his decision. “Then I shan’t serve any longer. That is,” he added, “when I will choose that serving is no longer within my interests.”

Father, who was sitting between Peter and himself, smirked at the reply, the only member of the family who did not disapprove of Bertie’s decision to continue with his military career, but rather encouraged it.

Perhaps emboldened by Peter’s attempts at persuasion, even his mother dropped all pretences and tried her own luck with more openness. “Do you not feel like you have given enough these past four years? More than many men give in their entire lifespan, indeed?”

That could have been an attack on Peter on any day of the week, but it hadn’t been then, which was as much of a relief as anything Bertie could have ever thought up himself to set two people he cared so deeply about to rights. It didn’t change the core fact that he was not going to give the Army up. “You fail to remember, perhaps, that I was not forcibly taken from my home to fight, Mother. No one came to enlist me, nor did I indeed set out to fight in this war. I joined the Army long before Germany and Austro-Hungary ever decided to attack France and the liberties we are all so very fond of. I am made of sterner stuff than that.” He never said as much, but the nickname of Iron Division he had enjoyed with his fellow soldiers was a sure reflection of the characters of all the men who had comprised the 3rd Division, himself included.

As he left the following day, Bertie was surer than ever that his decision had been the right one. Whatever Peter said, there truly wasn’t anything for Bertie at Brancaster. He had been going to grand dinners and balls organized by his cousin for the entirety of his stay, but he had felt and been the odd man out, however much Peter insisted on his presence and used him as a shield against all those relatives and admirers who fawned at him, in search of whatever Peter would offer them in the form of charity or information to be used liberally, even against Peter himself. The truth was, Peter would leave for Tangiers soon – he had postponed on account of Bertie being there for a short while on a visit, but he wouldn’t stay forever – and Bertie would be left with nothing at all to do then.


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurs to me that I didn't write an disclaimer at the beginning of the story, so I'm going to remedy that here (better late than never).
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Downton Abbey nor its characters, I'm only borrowing them for the purpose of telling this story. No copyright infringement intended.

Ireland turned out to be Bertie’s second-to-last exploit as an Army officer, anyway, but not truly for his own choice. Rather, because his father’s health took a turn for the worst towards the end of 1922; from his posting in Germany, Bertie had to make a choice. He chose, as he often had done, to do what was right for others rather than what felt right for himself. He requested an extended leave at the beginning of the following year and was granted it, he said goodbye to his fellow soldiers and went back home, knowing with certainty that despite the well wishes of his comrades, he was not going to see any of them again, unless it were at a grand dinner hosted by his cousin, or in London if ever Bertie could bring himself to write to them during their downtime. He said his goodbyes in earnest and left to return to Brancaster, where nothing at all was awaiting him, save the last of his father’s days.

His mother had welcomed him home with the solidity of a rock, a harbour that was always there for him; she had lit up her very own lighthouse and it had felt to Bertie as if his anchorless days had been nearing their end. He had not been wholly right, but that open door and that steely look would undoubtedly signal the beginning of his change of direction. Bertie’s role in the weeks following his return, before his father’s unavoidable death, were filled with commissions; his father’s position at the bank had not yet been reassigned, and since he refused to leave until he was replaced, he requested Bertie act as a go-between, fetching and carrying orders of business, with the bank and him. Bertie’s father, moreover, though not the agent at Brancaster, had been keeping a close eye on the Castle since Cousin William’s death, and had started helping manage the estate, planning to safeguard the future of the Hexham’s fortune even after his own death. It was thus that Bertie learnt many things about what he would have needed for the position of agent, though he never dreamt to act on his newly acquired knowledge.

Cousin Peter, as always, was more absent than present, his moods having led him to increase his sojourns in Tangiers quite frequently, especially now that he had no one but himself to answer to. Bertie heard his mother lament Cousin Peter’s actions enough that he would find his father’s commissions a blessing in disguise of tedious work. He began to take long walks in the grounds of the Castle and around the property (enjoying Peter’s permission to do so), noticing things that didn’t work as they should and taking note of them in his mind so that he might make his father aware of them upon his return home in the evenings. However, most of the times, he was discouraged from breaching any kind of business talk by his father’s pallor at dinner, and the clear fatigue that plagued his everyday life. More than that, Bertie feared to upset his mother. However much she put up a face for the benefit of both himself and his father, Bertie was not careless enough to miss the worried looks on her face whenever his father had troubles accomplishing the simplest of tasks. Shortly before Bertie’s return, the woman who had been helping them at the cottage had left them, and Mother had preferred to take on all the duties of housekeeper in anticipation of the cost of paying for Father’s medical treatments – though, unfortunately, there were none to be had.

Peter came back after receiving a letter from Bertie, in which he preannounced his father’s death; Bertie had not been trying to elicit his cousin’s sympathy, but the reality of things was that whatever Mr Pelham had chosen for the estate, it was not his decision to make but Peter’s, and it was not something that could be done over an epistolary exchange. Whether or not Mr Stokes would be kept on as the agent was wholly up to Peter’s own impression of him – a criticism of his work had been advanced by Bertie’s father, but that was no guarantee for substitution.

Upon his arrival, Peter had no apparent objection to Mr Stokes, but the way he didn’t express himself quite openly made Bertie think that more was afoot than he realised. Peter came to visit his second cousin on the man’s deathbed with an air of a man scheming, and requested a private audience with him that left Bertie uneasy and Mrs Pelham quite unsettled. It would turn out to be the last time Peter and Bertie’s father ever met, for two days later, Bertie’s father died. The funeral was held in the most solemn function Bertie could have ever imagined for his father, presided by the Deacon of Hexham – Peter sat at his left and Mother at his right. Nothing mattered to Bertie, however; the pain and grief were all-encompassing, and the fact that he was not supposed to show emotions in public didn’t help his state of mind in the least. He envied the men and women of a lower class than his, who were allowed to be honest and real about who they were; it brought home the reality of his condition more than anything he could have ever thought – he was hanging between two worlds, not an aristocrat who could enjoy the title’s benefits, but neither a commoner who could have freedom of action with his own life. If he hadn’t had his mother to care about, he would have gone back with the Army in a heartbeat – there, at least, he knew who he was and what he was supposed to be. As it were, he wrote to his Commanding Officer to tender his resignation from the Army.

Peter waited a couple of weeks before calling him at Brancaster for an evening meal. The company his cousin had invited was not a great deal different from the one that usually frequented the Castle, but Bertie had no heart for pretences and ensconced himself to the side, being as polite as he could, but for the least amount of time. He especially avoided Cousin Adele and her obvious, mounting resentment towards Peter.

Conversation at dinner was unavoidable but, with great surprise, he had been placed at his cousin’s side, at the place of honour, ruffling some feathers in the process no doubt. There, his gloom had very little chance of being allowed freedom; Peter insisted on carrying conversations that involved him throughout the meal, until Bertie asked in a pointed whisper why he couldn’t let him breathe for a second. Bertie had never been aggressive towards Peter, but he wasn’t wholly himself, and the reality of the matter was that he found half the people at the table unbearable, and the other half scheming and ill-intentioned, though of course his own perspective was skewed by resentment and listlessness.

Peter, a smile plastered on his face that was as false as the premises behind his unofficial bond to Cousin Adele, revealed himself to be quite in need of a judge of character. “Lord Caldwell,” he said with some tremor to his voice, “enjoys a certain reputation. He is a striking man.”

Bertie pretended that the matter was of no consequence to him, that he was not bothered by the thought in the least. “He is a married man.”

“And so will I be. Eventually.”

“Yes,” Bertie agreed, “and in the meantime should you be successful in your plans, he will always be in a strong position against you.”

“I know that,” Peter remarked, somewhat irate. “I want to know if you think him that kind of man or not.”

“He’d blackmail you until you found a way to make him heir to your entire fortune.”

“You think so?” Peter asked, baffled.

“I know so. He’s done this before, I can assure you.” Bertie had done his job, as he always did when new people began to hang around Brancaster in his cousin’s company. There was little he could do to change his cousin, and he felt Peter had no fault for his inclinations, but he was not as naïve as to think that other people were as gentle and kind-hearted as his cousin was. There was no man – or woman – in the whole of Britain whom Bertie trusted not to blackmail Peter for his weaknesses. He had done his research more than once before, and he had no intention of stopping only because his father was no longer there to protect his cousin’s fortune.

“Well,” Peter said, in a louder tone than Bertie had anticipated, garnering enough attention around himself that soon all conversation ceased at the table to focus on Peter and Bertie. “In that case, I think a toast is in order. To the late Mr Charles Pelham, who protected Brancaster for as long as he drew breath, and to Mr Herbert Pelham, the new agent, who has already proven himself to be a trusted advisor.”

People around the table lifted their glasses, despite the fact that Bertie himself couldn’t even compute what was happening. He was not an agent, he knew nothing of estates and administrations; he had no experience and no training; he knew little of farming and livestock. Peter was simply out of his mind. Dinner proceeded much like it had done before the big announcement, clearly no one with an aristocratic title truly gave any importance to an agent, however much emphasis Peter had tried to put on the new assignation. Yet, Bertie felt even more disconnected than he had at the beginning of it, and so he lingered long after everyone else had gone either to bed or home, just so he could speak with Cousin Peter alone.

“This is not right, Peter, I don’t have the experience necessary to take on this endeavour. You simply cannot place the entire Hexham fortune in unstudied hands, it would be the ruin of you.”

“How much money do we spend on the London House, do you know?”

“Yes, of course, I know. I spent the last six weeks reading such figures with my father and Mr Stokes, and I’m sure you know as much, but that does not make me artful, simply knowledgeable.”

“Yes,” Peter conceded. “But tell me, how would you go about reducing the costs of Hexham House?”

“Reducing the servants, of course. Peter–”

His cousin lifted his hand and stopped him halfway through his retort. “Mr Stokes thinks I should rent the house since it is so rarely open.”

“That’s idiotic, you do not rent a London house; Brancaster, now, that’s a different story altogether, of course, but not–” Bertie stopped himself this time. The answers were there, just like they had been when he had walked the grounds and talked to farmers and herders alike. It was instinctual and he didn’t even know how or why he couldn’t have seen it sooner.

“Cousin Charles kept this place afloat in the past months, this much I know, but he and Mr Stokes have been trying to stop the flood with scraps of cloth, and while they battled with each other. They come from a bygone era, where things worked regardless of how much competency anyone had, and Mr Stokes is trying to adapt to this future in a way that is going to damage Brancaster more than your father’s solicitude to keep to the old ways as much as possible. You might be a colt in such matters, but already you are better versed in this modern world than either of them were, are, or ever will be. I might not know much, Bertie, but I recognise this. Which is why I’m asking you, from the bottom of my heart, _please_ help me in this.” Bertie had no words to say. There was a voice within himself, one he had not ever truly heard before, which was now making itself known with screams of desperation, enticing him to take the job, to finally find the place allotted to him in the world. “I know I have failed to meet all of my father’s expectations, that I am not worthy of the role I was born into, but if I can do one good thing for this family’s future, please let me do it.” The earnest look of his cousin was more than even Bertie’s pig-headedness could ever contrast.

“You will trust me completely?” Peter nodded in assent. “You will do as I say at all times, even if that requires you to give up your daily routine and foibles?”

Peter smiled at that. “My _foibles_?”

“You know what I mean.” Bertie simply refused to be flustered.

Peter sobered up. “I do, and I will. And I will make a promise to you as well. Even if you were not to require it of me yourself, when I will finally hit my fortieth birthday, I will marry Cousin Adele.”

Bertie nodded, pleased beyond belief at his cousin’s honesty. By the time Peter hit forty, Adele would by no means be a young woman, but she would still be able to carry his children and the heir to the title and estate.

When Bertie announced the new role to his mother, her comment held a scathing undertone directed at Peter, but he took it in stride. He was not going to foster any hostility towards either of them for their common dislike – they were two people he loved, and he knew that should he ever need their presence, they would both do their utmost to keep him safe and protected. That was all he needed of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so this is the end of the prologue. From next week the more episode-related story will begin. I hope that those of you who enjoyed it so far will stick around for more :)


End file.
